Squids On A Theme From Phantom
by phantomy-cookies
Summary: The Phantom of the Opera retold with the addition of a giant squid. Loaded with heaps of sexual tension. And squids.
1. Stay Away From the North Side

Disclaimer: Don't own anything by Leroux... but seeing as he's been chucked into the unfeeling hands of the public domain, I suppose it really doesn't matter. HAHA! (Sorry Tubby.) I also borrowed the title from Rachmaninoff... just because it pleased me to do so.

For those of you who know me (and I sincerely apologize if you do) you may have stumbled on this happy little gem while reading our latest morbidity contest on PFN. It is, in a few humble words, my magnum opus. A tribute to all things whimsical and ridiculous in the realm of Phantom fiction. A story about giant squids in Lake Averne seemed to have infinite potential to me, and I hope to have untapped a small measure of that potential for your viewing pleasure. Posting it has (and will) allow me to _expand_ on the story to a much deeper, more meaningful level than before. With the addition of a few chapters, I hope to accomplish what the first one failed to: COMPLETE DOMINION OVER ALL! Mwahahaha! In this, I leave you dazed, but not defeated.

Hugs and kisses,  
phantomy-cookies

P.S. Dedicated to the Scorpion, whose sickeningly sweet and fluffy Phantom stories are undoubtedly my greatest source of amusement and inspiration.

* * *

It was a dark and spooky night. 

Dark- because they were several stories below ground and there was minimal lighting. Spooky- because Christine (our chaste and exquisite heroine) was walking side by side near an underground lake with a six foot skeleton that smelt of death, slept in a coffin, and was madly obsessed with her to a slightly unhealthy degree. Night- because it makes the story even spookier.

Lovely as all of this was, however, Christine couldn't deny that she was feeling a bit morose. Or that Erik was a very spooky bastard. Perhaps it was his mask… or his horrendous ugliness. Hmmm.

Oh! But she loved taking these little walks! Positively adored them even! A delightful stroll along the bank of a big, blue-ish lake always tickled her spirits and made her giddy. It was either this or stay in the house and sing. She loved singing, but the heavy amounts of sexual tension that accompanied her lessons with Erik were a bit draining at times. For everyone. Including you, gentle reader. Ah, but fear not! Christine and Erik would eventually be experiencing countless hours of glorious and horrific skeleton sex that could _shame _the very ART of love-making. Yes indeedy!

But you won't be getting a lick of it in this story. No sir! Christine was still a ridiculously virtuous young girl, and Erik was still a moody, murderous, psychologically unhinged corpse.

They walked the shores in silence.

Sensing Christine's moroseness, Erik turned to her with an inquisitive stare. "Are you feeling unwell, my dear?" he asked evenly. (Apparently, our masked-malefactor was under the impression that traipsing underground with a manipulative 'talking' cadaver inspired nothing but euphoria in a woman. And it did.) "Would you like to return?"

"No, no thank you," was her kind and virtuous reply. There had already been far too much sexual tension that evening as it stood. More so than is decent for this story. Better they stayed 'outdoors' where there were no coffins or bathtubs to complicate things. "I'm quite well, Erik. You needn't worry."

They walked on a little further. "Would you like to do something else? A carriage ride down the Bois, perhaps..."

She let out a small sigh, gazing into the vast expanse of catacombs before them. "No, dear. Really. I'm more than content to walk with you along this dark and ominous shore of yours. Staring at the lake… thinking about… music." After walking on a bit further, she suddenly turned to him with a hopeful grin. "Erik, do you think we might go further this time?"

He stopped dead in his tracks. "What?" _Did he hear her correctly_? Goodness. And just when he thought all sexual tension had vanished for the evening…

"Go further," she implored, clasping her hands together like an enthusiastic squirrel. "Walk down to the other side of the lake. Surely the waters flow beyond your home! Why have you never taken me there?"

He sighed. (For more than a number of reasons.) "There is nothing to see on the northern shore, my dear," he remarked solemnly, walking more slowly this time. "Fish perhaps. Blind and battered women who get lost down here. A very large and gnarled mass of dead bodies, perchance. Possibly even chunks of little girls. But nothing else."

She leveled him with a shocked expression. "I don't find that very amusing, Erik."

"YOU don't HAVE to," he said emphatically, then roared with laughter.

She let out a sigh of frustration. The silly skeleton was laughing at his own incomprehensible jokes again. "Please, Erik. Don't laugh like that. You _must_ know that I've been yearning for… for something… new for us to do. Our time together is so painfully ritualistic at times and…" She tried to think of how to word her sentiments properly, but there really wasn't a successful way to say: "_You terrify the hell out of me and I really wouldn't mind it if we made sweet and hideous love in your coffin sometime this evening._" Instead, she settled on a more delicate approach to curing her recent bout of Christine boredom. "These cellars seem positively endless Erik, and I do so long to learn all of their secrets. Come… Will you take me?"

Of course Erik would take her. _Meeheeheehee_.

Oh wait. Different conversation.

"The waters of Averne hold many secrets," he said with a curious gaze across the lake's dim surface. "I know many of them, for we are old friends, you see. But some secrets are not meant to be revealed, Christine, and as such, you must never ask me to take you further beyond this shore."

She tried to protest. "But Erik-"

"NO," was his final and furious answer.

It seemed to do the trick, as Christine adopted a very horrified expression. Well, let's be honest. It was her _usual _horrified expression. He moaned beneath his mask, realizing that he was now being unflatteringly spooky. Taking her little hands in his larger, bonier ones, he fixed her with a loving and crazy stare. "Forgive me, my darling. It's not that Erik doesn't long to grant you your heart's every desire. Heavens, I would disassemble a small child if you asked me to! But I must ask this sincerely of you… and you must promise me this… _stay away from the north side_."

"But…"

"Please," he said softly.

She reverently bowed her head. "Yes, Erik. Please forgive me! I didn't wish to upset you."

Her beautiful BLONDE locks fell over her face in a perfect halo of loveliness. Loveliness that Erik couldn't help but adore. He looked at her tenderly with his fearsome yellow eyes, damning all restraints on sexual tension that had previously been placed on this story. It was a moment ripe for romance: of the Christine and Erik variety. You know, _the kind we all_ _love_. Besides, wasn't it true that they really and truly loved each other, albeit in an odd and perversely inappropriate way?

Yeeks. It's a good think that Christine was as lovely and virginal as your average Swedish ingénue.

He drew her into his dark, skeletal embrace. "I am only concerned for your safety, my dear," he whispered, burying his mask into her neck. "What would Erik do if anything were to happen to his beloved Christine?"

"I know," she whispered, smiling as she inhaled his enchanting musk of death. Oh yes! The moment was indeed ripe for romance. Whoops. "You have my promise."

* * *

_STAY AWAY FROM THE NORTH SIDE…_

Christine, by virtue of genetic impediments or sheer peculiarity of character, had an insatiable and extraordinarily damning sense of inquisitiveness. Call it curiosity, if you will. For anything. And everything. Especially the forbidden.

It had, of course, been the unfortunate cause of the unmasking episode, where Erik has nearly ripped her hair out of her head and she had spent the night scrubbing bits of his face from her fingernails. It had also been the cause of that awkward and embarrassing 'misunderstanding' in the stables of the Opera (which will merely be alluded to, but the finer details will have to be saved for another story.) Much as she wished she could help it, Christine had a penchant for doing things that she knew she really shouldn't. Why? Who knows why! It's just part of her character.

_AWAY FROM THE NORTH SIDE STAY…_

Mind you, it's not as though she WANTED to be disobedient. Far from it, actually. Even in her earlier years, she had always desired to do and say the right things with everyone. What was it all of those Scandinavians had said? 'They marveled at her beauty and her eagerness to speak and to behave well.' Yes. That seemed about right. She DID desire to behave well. Especially with Erik. But her voracious appetite for learning and discovering mysterious things was like an ungovernable squirrel at times, running and squeaking and managing to get her into all sorts of trouble. What was she to do? There was nothing for it. If she couldn't follow the simple instructions of a masked lunatic the first time, what on earth made her think she could keep her promises the second?

_FROM AWAY STAY THE NORTH SIDE…_

_THE STAY FROM, SLIDE NORTH AWAY…_

Hmmm…

_FROM THE SLIDE STAY NORWAY…_

_SLIDE THE STAY FROM NORWAY…_

Oooo!

_STAY! SLIDE FROM NORWAY!_

Well that hardly made any sense. Norway? She was from Sweden!

She could very well understand why Erik wanted her to stay, being that she was a slave to both his music and his obsessive, morbid, skeleton love. But to slide? And from Norway? The idea was preposterous. And very unbecoming of a **virtuous **young girl.

(Because she _was_ unquestionably virtuous. You could ask anyone!)

Needless to say, with Erik's strange and cryptic remarks in her head, she inevitably found her way up the shores of Averne to the northern part of the catacombs. The _forbidden_ part of the catacombs. On the whole, this would spell danger to anyone with the slightest bit of common sense, but Christine was a very special and unique individual. Common sense was about as much a part of her character as was coarse and riotous vulgarity. Still, we mustn't fault her for this, as it wouldn't be much of a story in the first place if our darling little Swede was a standard for good judgment.

Ouch. Sharp rocks! Perhaps she should be paying a bit more attention to the ground in front of her instead of carrying on a conversation with herself.

Erik, of course, had been left to his music, and in such instances as these, Christine could frolic naked about the place without gaining the slightest bit of his attention. Not to imply that she had ever tried this, but…

It was the first example that came to mind.

So she had left him there, declaring that a mid-morning stroll would help to liven her spirits. He had replied by giving her another one of his odd, unsettling glares, and the matter was obviously settled.

And there was seriously no more room for _any more _sexual tension. We've been stretching it thin as it is.

Reaching the northern part of the shoreline, unfortunately, failed to be as exciting as she had been anticipating. Oh, it was a trifle darker, perhaps. And the air had an unfamiliar stench about it. But there wasn't anything else that was particularly interesting. The lake remained calm and blue-ish, and the cellars were still ominous. Wasn't there supposed to be bodies?

_Guggle, guggle…_

Christine paused. What was that? A sound from the water? She glanced out into the murky darkness. For a moment, she began to wonder if her mind was playing tricks on her again. It often did.

_Guggle…_

Aha! So she wasn't insane after all! The lake HAD been disturbed! But by what? Fish? Erik _did _say something about fish… Or chunks of little girls. Thinking about it though, it didn't exactly seem plausible. (_Good heavens! Chunks of little girls? What on earth was he talking about_?)

She leaned over the edge of the bank.

Whatever it was, Christine had a sneaking suspicion that it was one of the many secrets Erik had been hinting at. _The waters of Averne hold many secrets_. But which one was this? Perhaps it was a treasure chest, left here by swashbuckling pirates of old. Haha. Silly Christine! Pirates under the Opera? Hahaha! Why was she always so funny when Erik was never around?

_Guggle…_

Oooo! The guggling sound was getting closer. She was positively sure of it! Oh what could it be? It was certainly not a body, or blind women. And if it were a fish, it must have been a very large one to make so loud a sound. How very, very interesting!

It was in this frame of mind that Christine found herself suddenly seized by a long and slimy tentacle that shot out of the water as quickly as a snake. It coiled around her delicate frame, drawing a sudden, startled gasp from her before it dragged her below the surface of the water.

She hadn't even been able to scream.


	2. Of Bathtubs and Battered Women

Humorous? Personally, I think this chapter is more wicked than anything else. Shamefully wicked. But don't pretend like you don't love it. (Heehee)

My apologies to anyone who finds the Leroux references somewhat confusing. Read the book, dangit!

* * *

It was some time in the late afternoon when Erik eventually grew bored of his tiresome compositions and found his way into the cozy surroundings of his drawing room. The music had ceased to inspire him, and a skeleton who generally refuses to eat and sleep on a consistent basis only had so much energy to expend. 

Besides, Christine had been gone for far too long, and the thought was starting to unsettle him. He sat there, on his sexy leather couch, mulling over how wise it was to let her roam around in his cellars unaccompanied. True… she _did_ know her way back to the surface, but to leave? And without _telling_ him at least? No. That simply wouldn't do.

She said she had wanted to go for a walk. Well, that seemed perfectly reasonable. _Yes! Go! Go for a walk, you silly child_! It was a welcome reprieve.

The girl would go for her little walk, he would pound on the organ for a few hours, and they would both forget about the lush, velvety casket propped open in his bedroom. Stupid coffin! The horrified and suggestive looks Christine kept tossing him whenever she saw it did nothing to help the situation either. Neither did the fact that he was smack-crazy insane.

"_Erik!_" the coffin would say. "_Oh, Erik? There's room in here for two… if you know what I mean_."

Yes! Nothing wrong with Christine taking a little walk by the lake. After all, how much harm could she possibly come to strolling by the shore?

A lot.

At that particular instant, the door to the drawing room opened with a sudden violent crack, and Erik looked up to see Christine standing in the doorway, soaked to the skin, glaring at him with a very irregular expression. He studied her for a moment, wondering if this was some new and ludicrous idea for added sexual tension. Despite her wet and form-fitting appearance, he didn't really think so.

"Hello," she said stupidly.

"Christine," he replied flatly.

A pause.

"May I ask why you are all wet?"

"Yes," she said, a bit unsteadily. "Something… distracted… me. I… fell into the lake. Accidentally."

Silence. The kind of silence that is both awkward and painful. Or painfully awkward. He regarded her strangely behind his sexy black mask (which _really_ needs to be emphasized and I might as well do it here). "Something _distracted_ you… and you fell into the lake?"

"Accidentally," she finished for him.

Hmmm. Overly stiff posture. Heaving chest. Hysterical kind of 'wild-eyed' look that means she is inwardly praying to at least fifteen different deities that he won't come over there and strangle her. _Something is obviously amiss_.

"And what exactly distracted you, my dear?"

She shifted nervously. "The rocks."

The rocks. How amusing. Next thing you know, she'll be telling him that she thought they were pirate treasure.

"I didn't hear a splash," he remarked pointedly.

"You were composing," she replied instantly.

More staring.

This really wasn't going well.

"I am very cold, Erik," she said after what seemed an eternity.

"Yes, I am aware of that."

Whoops! What he meant to say was… "You must be. The water is always cold this time of year."

"Mmmhmm…" she said, ignoring the subtle suggestion for more sexual tension. My how time flies during these whimsical hours spent in the House by the Lake!

"Perhaps you should draw yourself a bath my dear." Wuh oh! "The hour is very late, and I believe you mentioned another _engagement_ this evening that I expect you won't want to miss."

Another engagement? Oh right! Raoul is in this story. Almost forgot.

"I…"

She didn't seem to have anything else to add.

Indeed, the agonizing and embarrassing scene had carried on for long enough, as well as all half-hearted attempts to repress the copious amounts of sexual tension. Erik decided to go and make tea, and Christine thankfully retired to her room for a steamy bath, grabbing her towel, her soap, and her scissors. Not a single word was spoken between them for the remainder of the day, and whatever was going on in either of their minds, the reader can only guess.

In the end, though, we DID end up getting Christine in Erik's bathtub. Hee.

* * *

Now unlike most other Phantom stories that you, the humble reader, may chance to stumble upon in your never-ending quest for phantomy pornography, this one happens to be as special and unique as our naked, bathing Mlle. Daaé. How might it be unique you ask? Simply put, it makes use of many uninteresting characters in the original novel that, while putting a firm emphasis on the Lerouxness of this sordid tale, are boring to just about everybody. 

Oh, they're interesting enough in their own right, these secondary and oft forgotten Leroux-ish individuals. But when it comes to that subtle promise of sexual tension, they're about as sexy as Mama Valerius getting a sponge bath. (And if you find that sexy, please continue.)

At this _particular_ moment in time, when Christine was indeed naked and bathing in the room next to Erik, something a might sinister was lurking in the spooky depths of the Opera cellars. So sinister, in fact, that it could defy all laws of God and man. It is a thing so abnormal, so wrong, that humanity itself lies helpless in it's twisted, malevolent grasp. To look upon it is to stumble back in mute terror, sickening and unadulterated revulsion having permeated every essence of your soul. What perversity of creation could have allowed the formation of such a thing? What fevered brain would dare to suggest something so _deranged_, so _monstrous_, that it would shake the very foundations of this, our human existence?

"Monsieur, I beg you! Please!" came the girl's pitiful wail. "He is after me! He is after me! He has taken advantage of me and I desperately need you to save me! To help me! To make love to me!"

The curious apparition (a Shade if you will) sighed deeply, taking the girl gently but firmly by her soft and supple shoulders. "Mademoiselle, please try to _CALM DOWN_. I understand that you are in a great deal of duress at the moment, and I will be more than happy to take you back up to the managers' office. From there, you can contact the police superintendent and…"

"No!" she moaned, crushing her willowy frame to his warm cloak. "Oh, no, no, no! They cannot help me! I am all alone in the world! All alone!" She buried her sweet face into his chest and sobbed pitifully. Strangely enough, it sounded somewhat like the desperate moans of an inexpensive prostitute. "Please, Monsieur! If you only knew what that scoundrel has done to me. What he continues to do to me! I've lived in misery and in fear for so long, I know of nothing else! Oh! If only there were someone as emotionally and physically scarred as I am! Someone who could terrorize me and undress me in lustful yet tender violence!"

Behold: the ultimate horror of mankind. (Did you honestly believe I was talking about a squid?)

He ran his hand over the back of his neck, trying to keep some semblance of his character. Which was severely being tested right now. "Mademoiselle… I am _aware_ of the fact that you are obviously in some sort of danger, and that you seem to be the victim of hateful and incomprehensible abuse. Really, you have my deepest sympathies. You have everyone's sympathies! We _all _feel sorry for you. But whatever rumors or mystical fantasies you've conjured up about a safe haven in the bowels of the Opera are pure lunacy."

"But what am I to do!" she sniffed, placing her lily white hands on her rosy cheeks. "The beast will kill me! If I don't hide here, who will find me and save me from that awful, awful man? Who will rescue my troubled heart and show me how to _love_ again? Who will have _SEX_ with me?"

If it were actually possible to hear a person cringe, it's a fair guess that you would be hearing it right now. As a side note, this isn't exactly what I would classify as sexual tension. It's more like sexual perversion.

His jaw tightened_. Services to the State be damned. I am NOT getting paid enough to put up with this._

"To be frank, Mademoiselle, most people who care to venture down in these cellars wind up dead. In as many horrible and gruesome ways as you can think of. Drownings, strangling, tortures, and several others that I would never _dare_ to suggest to your… delicate nature. Mark my words- this is _not_ a suitable place for you to hide. The bones and corpses of all who have gone before you should obviously be a testament to that."

She clutched one hand to her aching bosom. "Bones? Corpses?" Her flaming emerald eyes suddenly lit up with luminous wonder. "Are any of these corpses well-endowed musicians who enjoy sexually terrorizing young women?"

He stared at her. He continued staring at her.

Is anyone else finding this precious?

"**_Mademoiselle_**," he said slowly, now unable to hide the tinge of nausea that had crept into his voice. "For the love of all that is sacred and holy, PLEASE go back where you came from."

She glared at him, uncomprehending, then twisted her adorable, cream-colored features into a lovely little frown. "No!" she stammered, stamping her little foot on the ground. "I will NOT go back. NO, NO, NO! YOU can't make ME do ANYTHING that I don't want to, unless it pertains to violent sex. Which I will want to do anyways." The silky raven locks of her hair fell angrily in her face. "Now you listen to me, you silly excuse for a random little bit of Leroux… and you listen GOOD! I am _just _as confident and stubborn as I am helpless and vulnerable. It's all part of my adorably subtle charm. I am beautiful, talented, and frightened… and no one but NO ONE is going to rob me of my shining and pointless moment of glory in this lame idea of a Phantom story. I've managed to make it this far, and I am NOT going back until SOMEONE makes love to me. Do you hear me? I want sexual and emotional fulfillment! Immediately!"

Yikes.

Sexual and emotional fulfillment?

He glared at her for a long, hard minute.

The girl, admittedly, was exceptionally (and appallingly) beautiful. That fiery auburn hair hung in unruly curls over her porcelain features, and those bright blue eyes sparkled like rubies in the… well… however eyes manage to sparkle several stories below ground. She was also practically naked. Or half-dressed, I guess. And let's not forget that she was standing there, fairly well begging him to take her for a happy tumble on the cellar steps. There was no persuading her otherwise.

Well then, there was really only one thing left to do.

Turning her chin up with his hand, he looked deeply and sincerely into those sparkly, seductive eyes before giving her head a sharp, jolting twist that successfully snapped her neck.

_Snap. _

The girl's body slid clumsily to the floor, and he took a careful step back to avoid breaking her fall.

_Thud._

Woo. That didn't look pretty. So much for exceptional beauty.

Scratching at his chin slightly, he debated on whether or not it was too early in the day for a little drinky. Hmmm. Nope. This whole ordeal was definitely deserving of a swig of the ol' liquid numbness. Taking his flask from out of his pocket, he unscrewed the cap and hastily swallowed a burning gulp of the damnable stuff. Sweet merciful heavens, but he hated Monday mornings. It wasn't often that he was forced to kill these desperate, horny women. He rather preferred to leave that up to the crazy, skeletal bastard that haunted the place.

It was only fitting, after all. The sick-ugly carcass was _REALLY_ the one they all wanted to get in the sack. Though goodness knows why. Who would have thought the Paris Opera was a breeding ground for so many beautiful and battered necrophiliacs?

_Crackers. Another body. What to do, what to do? _

He really didn't want to have to haul the girl clear down to the wench pile. (A rather endearing name he had given it, if you ask me.) The smell of all of those rotting women was getting pretty dreadful, and he was hoping he wouldn't have to make any trips down there before lunchtime.

LUNCH!

He took out his pocket watch. Sure enough, it was just past one o'clock in the afternoon. Holy smokes! Feeding time! How could he have forgotten?

Of all of the many obligations and responsibilities he had been given, feeding time at the lake was a tip-top priority. At least, it was one of the few things on his agenda that was somewhat enjoyable to him. (Well, that and drinky time.) The northern shores weren't too far away, and though the girl seemed a might scrawny for a proper meal (with the exception of her bountiful bosoms), she would qualify at least as a suitable, high-protein snack. Hmmm. They usually weren't this fresh, though. Would that make a difference?

He kicked her slightly with his foot.

A pity his back was feeling unusually sore at the moment. Probably had something to do with that fiasco back at the Opera stables. (Which, again, will merely be alluded to.) She didn't LOOK too heavy, but the thought of heaving her on his back made him, understandably, very ill.

_Meh._

He could just drag her down. The girl was dead, after all.

"You wouldn't mind, would you Mademoiselle?" he smiled, picking her leg up from off the ground. "Not that I actually require your permission, but it _IS_ the gentlemanly thing to do. And I am always a gentleman. Besides, you'll absolutely LOVE where we're going. I don't know about sexual fulfillment, but you'll definitely be doing some filling!"

The remarkable and sinister little apparition started dragging her down the cellar steps, whistling a familiar tune and heedless of the fact that most of the girl's skin was being scraped off of her arms and face.

"You know," he continued warmly, "I don't normally have the opportunity to share pleasantries with people down here. They come, I take them back. They die, I haul them off to some forgotten part of the catacombs. Not a great deal of company to be had, unfortunately." He hopped off of the last step, giving her leg a sharp and unfriendly tug as he yanked her haphazardly off the staircase. "Oh, I don't want you to misunderstand me! There are plenty of bodies scattered hereabouts, but not exactly a lot of conversation going on- if you take my meaning. Still! Ha ha! I find myself enjoying your acquaintance more and more by the minute! Little did you know how much lovelier you'd be in death than you were in life. Whoops! Mind the rocks, Mademoiselle."

Tsk. Too late. But one less eye wasn't going to hurt anyone.

"In all honesty," he continued as if he hadn't been interrupted, "I think I prefer the dead to the living. Less noise. Fewer dramatics. Why just the other day I was talking to Mikael, this agreeable little chap whose been in the lower dungeons since before I can even remember. We were discussing politics and- oh! Do be careful with your ear there Mademoiselle! That's going to… ah… never mind. Where was I? Oh yes! Politics! As I was saying…"

The rest of their journey passed by pleasantly enough as he chatted with the lovely young woman about all sorts of different topics of interest. He had a devil of a time getting her past some of the more jagged spots on the shoreline though, and practically had to yank her arm off when it got caught in an unbearably tiny crevice near the cellar gate. Arg! Damn it all! If he wasn't more careful, there wouldn't be anything left for feeding!

Oh goody. The northern shore. Just in the nick of time!

After pulling her a few feet up towards the bank, he came to a quick stop and dropped the woman's leg unceremoniously on the ground. It was probably the only chunk of her that was still somewhat intact. Thankfully, the lake had been closer than he had expected. Or maybe he had simply lost all concept of time getting caught up in politics and the current popular fashions in Paris. Carrying on a charming conversation with such a beautiful, tattered companion had been more enjoyable than he thought.

He stretched his arms briefly, casually glancing at the girl slumped near his feet. Goodness! Those rocks were certainly sharp! Me oh my. Well, it was probably all for the better. The scent of blood would draw the creature to the surface more quickly. Either that or the girl's over-powering rose-scented perfume.

_Guggle guggle._

"Lunchtime my little friend," he replied to the guggling with a cheerful grin. "I hope you've brought your appetite!"

Yes. Snack time had officially arrived. And already somewhat tenderized. Mmmm. Perhaps he should offer some sort of eulogy? It seemed appropriate. He _had_ sort of snapped the girl's neck and all. But the girl seemed to be very forgiving. She hadn't even thought to mention the whole neck-snapping incident during their entire conversation. Such a lovely, lovely girl.!

"Mademoiselle Sex-fiend, it was a pleasure," he spoke as he picked her up from the ground, preparing to heave her a good distance off into the water. "Let me assure you, my dear, that in death, you will serve a far greater purpose than you have in life. Best wishes, and the like!"

Okay. On the count of three. 1-2...

He practically stumbled off balance.

With a valiant and miraculous effort, he was just able to catch himself from tumbling backwards as the girl, having been released a second too early from his grasp, flew headlong into a nearby wall. _Good freaking hell! _What on earth had caused our cool and collected Shade to make such an inelegant little spin at the moment when he was about to make squid food of Mademoiselle Sex-fiend?

_Footprints! Wet footprints on the shoreline! _

His eyes went wide as he stooped to pick up his fallen felt hat from off of the ground. The body of the girl was crumpled over at a warped angle near the cellar wall, her one eye taking in the entire scene with a lopsided grin. Shucks. You know, she really _was_ much more charming when she was dead. Too bad our temporary protagonist had completely forgotten about her as he studied the wet and intriguingly small footprints that seemed to emerge from out of the water.

_Crackers! Someone had been here! Fairly recently in fact! But… but who?_

Suddenly, as if answering his own question, he caught sight of a length of dress material, torn off and lying wet on the ground. Dress material! A woman? Who fell into _this_ part of the lake and _survived_?

Impossible! It was completely and utterly impossible.

Unless…

_Oh, snatch._

He looked up into the dark and menacing catacombs, trying to discern how far the footprints trailed off to from the little shore. Merciful crap. They led down to the Southern end. There was no way he could follow them. Not without incurring the wrath of a bony, strangling nutcase.

_Crap, crap, crap._

He tossed an anxious glance out on the water, then looked back into the darkness.

Hmmm, hmmm, hmmm. NOPE! This was **not **good. Not good at all.

He wanted to set aside his impending fear of… well… of whatever it was he was fearing. Wet footprints didn't necessarily mean anything. Perhaps the creature wasn't even in this part of the lake at the time. Or maybe It wasn't even hungry. And the girl, in all probability, was most likely dead by now. Aha! Yes! The girl was dead! No need to panic. The masked chuckle would have strangled her the moment she showed up at his doorstep, begging for sex. Even as we speak, her body was probably heaped on top of the wench pile… making a meal for all of the scurrying cellar rats. YES, YES, YES! Everything was a-ok.

A-ok.

Yessir!

_Guggle guggle._

He glared at the lake. Guggling. Happy guggling. And not the kind of guggling that suggested the creature had been feeding. _This_ guggling, to his everlasting horror, was much, much worse.

Definitely, positively, completely and inarguably _MUCH WORSE_.

_Crackers._


	3. Vicomte Surprise

_A/N: To anyone that possibly cares, I sincerely apologize for taking forever to update this dumb story. It was a fun chapter to write though, so I hope it manages to tickle you. To all lovers of Leroux!Raoul, I hope I did him sufficient justice for you. Many regards! _

_Special thanks and loff to Ms. Chatastic, who made this update possible. She is really and truly teh sex._

* * *

The dining room at _La Prostituée De Luxe _was beautifully furnished for the evening, drawing a fine assembly of prominent Parisian patrons. (Woo!) Several young couples were enjoying a seasoned variety of meats and buttered delicacies, laughing and tinkling wine glasses while they made love to each other in playful, coquettish bantering. Several exquisite tapestries were draped along the walls, each of them depicting various naked women frolicking in ponds and flower beds.

The Vicomte Raoul de Changy (who was inevitably bound to make an appearance in this story- thus completing our remarkable angst-ridden love triangle, oft repeated but never truly superseded) sat opposite Christine, watching her solemn and distant behavior with the slightest trace of concern. And annoyance. And general crabbiness.

When he had arrived earlier at her home on the _Rue Notre-Dame-de-Victoires_ (specifically mentioned in the book for all of you insufferable purists) he was shocked to find Christine looking so pale and despondent. More so than usual, of course. Asking her what was wrong, she had told him "nothing…" which was more or less how all of their conversations went these days.

_You're looking frightened Christine, is there something wrong? _

_Oh no! Nothing is wrong. _

_Is that a new perfume Christine, or have you been at the cemetery again? _

_It's nothing, Raoul. Let's go talk to old people and have them tell us stories._

And so on.

Reservations at the dining establishment had only been mildly interesting to her, and the food that the flamboyant waiting staff provided lay cold and uneaten on her plate. She simply sat there and stared at nothing… which seemed more evocative of her childhood soubriquet than Raoul cared to admit. Little Lotte, with her BLONDE curls and forget-me-not eyes, was plainly elsewhere this evening. It was almost like she was back at the cottage by the sea, glaring at her father in horror and glazed fascination while he told her the story of Lotte and the Singing Skeleton.

But honestly, considering what our Swedish ingénue gets herself into, (not the least of which is Erik's bathtub) can you really blame her for being a bit preoccupied?

Anyhoo, back to Raoul's irritability:

"Christine," he finally spoke when the silence became far too unbearable. (Granted, silence is never all that unbearable when conversation with Raoul is had.)

"Hmmm?" she replied, glaring at him as if she'd only just realized he was sitting there.

"You've not touched your plate," he remarked quietly. "Is the meal at all disagreeable to you, dearest? We can ask for something else, if you'd like."

She stared at him quizzically for a moment, then looked down and noticed that there was food in front of her. "Oh! Oh, no Raoul. This is wonderful! I'm just feeling a bit… full this evening. That's all."

He looked hurt. "You dined earlier, Christine?"

She looked gradually to the rare chunks of steak that were lying on her plate, thick and bleeding succulent cow juices that trickled into the prawns. "No," she remarked slowly, her hand involuntarily settling across her stomach. "I'm just… not very hungry. Please, dear… eat! Don't feel ill at ease on my account."

Raoul wanted to protest (as Raouls often do) but the nature of their conversation obviously seemed to be upsetting her. And she was indeed starting to look queasy. Deciding that a bit of overbearing attentiveness would win her over, he quickly summoned a waiter to their table.

"Monsieur? Would you be good enough to get Mademoiselle a glass of mineral water?"

The waiter stared at Raoul, then immediately broke out in a fit of laughter that carried across the entire dining area. "Certainly Monsieur le Vicomte! Would you also like me to get Mademoiselle Daaé some smelling salts? Ha-ha-ha-ha!"

Raoul's cheeks blushed a crimson red. The man had both embarrassed and befuddled him, and it was with a heavy dose of consternation that our Vicomte watched him turn abruptly towards the kitchen, still laughing, without giving either of them a second glance. It was never easy trying to woo his Mademoiselle Daaé if people couldn't stop laughing at him for one damnable second. Really, it was difficult enough trying to talk to Christine without bursting into tears every time she said or did something to upset him. With respect to the nature of their relationship, dear reader, I want to emphasize that it isn't as though Raoul and Christine didn't elicit their own interesting bit of sexual tension between their two precious persons. It's just that no one really cared.

Let me rephrase that… I don't really care.

Struggling to gain some composure, he tried another topic of interest.

"I visited your mother again last night," he smiled, taking his wine glass in hand. "She kissed me fully on the lips and told me that you had been abducted by winged cherubs from heaven. Ha-ha."

"My mother is dead, Raoul," Christine said mournfully.

He frowned. "Christine, I was referring to your good Mamma Valerius."

"Oh," was her tired reply.

They sat like that for a moment in silence.

He took a sip of the wine. _I will not start crying, I will not start crying, I will not start…_

"We've heard reports that the northern weather is reaching record temperatures. One of the coldest winters they've seen in years. Seems a rather foolish time to be taking an expedition to the North Pole, if you think about it."

He laughed his charming happy laugh, which was neither maniacal nor horrible. (Pity.)

"Yes, I expect it to be rather dangerous," he continued, trying to catch her eye. "Heaven knows whether any of us will survive. They say that if the cold doesn't freeze us, then the unmentionable terrors of the Arctic will. Would that grieve you, Christine, if your old playfellow were torn from the frozen daylight and drowned in the unfeeling depths of the sea?"

"Yes…" she nodded, her skin beginning to turn an odd shade of green. "But… really dear, I'm sure it won't be _that_ bad."

He smiled at her obvious concern, and decided it was time to try some more of that adorable Changy romance on her. "You know," he replied more soberly, "I've missed you these last few nights. Desperately so." He took her hand from across the table, finding it cold and clammy. "You capture my heart at every performance, and then you vanish from the face of the earth… taking my love and my heart with you. And I always wonder… _will she ever return_? _Or is my heart gone forever?_"

Christine closed her eyes and swallowed deeply. "Raoul…"

"I know that I promised to be patient," he stumbled on, "and that I promised not to question you. But I must confess that it grieves me never to see you, Christine! We both know that my ship leaves in less than a month, and every second we spend together is so precious to us. So precious to me!"

He pressed his lips to her hand (those smooth, fleshy lips of his) as she sat there in total silence. He looked up at her intently, only to discover that her gaze had drifted off in another direction entirely. It was as if she hadn't even heard him. A passing gentleman caught his eye and made little effort to hide the mocking laugh that poisoned Raoul's little kisses. Naturally, the Vicomte was starting to get angry.

But not in a sexy way.

Not in the way that your skeletal admirer builds torture chambers, garrotes people, and watches you secretly in your dressing room while you are either changing or amusing yourself in other ways.

Because that is sexy.

"Why?" he whispered in a tone that was relatively indecent, considering their current surroundings. "Why these games, Mademoiselle? Do you find them funny? Is my humiliation so gloriously amusing to you? Would you like me to just shrink and shrivel away? Don't answer that. Honestly, though! I don't know what possesses you to toy with my heart the way you do! Perhaps you'd display more feeling if I offered you my love under an exquisite canopy in an open coffin!"

Christine turned to him with a fevered look. "What did you… You've been reading my diary?"

"Yes! Because I love you!"

She closed her eyes with a small groan, placing a dainty hand to her forehead. Mistaking this as a silent encouragement for him to continue, Raoul took to more protesting and whining.

"It's ridiculous Christine, the games we play! We play at a secret engagement. We play with each other's hearts. We play at dining in your dressing room, night after night, eating naught but cookies and wine. Cookies, Christine! With a little pot of violets! I feel like such a fool! Such a sad, asinine, insignificant fool!"

He was starting to breathe more heavily now, irritating himself even more than he was irritating the reader.

"And all the while your sweet, crazy benefactress, who loves you dearly and who possibly loves me even more, rots in her bed at home and continues to think you're still an honorable woman. Fah! But are you honorable Christine? What would an honorable woman be doing, courting two different men at the same time? Where would an honorable woman be going, night after night, at the close of every performance? Why would an honorable woman need a closet full of scandalous and incomprehensibly erotic undergarments, Christine? WHY?"

The girl clutched at her stomach more tightly this time. "_You went through my closets_?"

"YES! BECAUSE I LOVE YOU!"

Someone at a nearby table started to laugh.

Their waiter approached them with the glass of mineral water, but upon seeing the peevish expression on the Vicomte's face, he decided to depart as quickly as he had come. Raoul chewed at his little moustache cantankerously, waiting for Christine to respond, not even bothering to wipe away the steady stream of tears that were already trickling down his lovely cheeks.

And Christine?

There was no response. No expression of pity or concern. All she seemed to be doing was turning greener.

He suddenly stood, walking to the other side of the table where he gripped Christine's arm and escorted her out into a nearby corridor. He had had enough. The restaurant's other occupants glared at him with amused expressions, for what more was the Vicomte de Changy other than the perfect object of ridicule? Everyone laughed at him. Christine laughed at him. Philippe laughed at him. Doctors… maids… Merciful heavens! Even Mama Valerius thought he had the most laughable joke of a fair moustache!

Oh yes. Raoul had had enough.

"I cannot tolerate this a moment longer!" he cried, clutching her arms in his hands. "I am mad! I am jealous! You don't even _realize_ how severely you are tormenting me! You couldn't possibly have wounded me more if you had torn the very skin from off of my face and made it into some horrible keepsake! Oh Christine… Why? Why do you scorn the love of an innocent and heartsick young man? Why do you reduce me to tears as if I were a blossoming, adolescent girl? Is it Erik? Does he come between us? Ah! I see you turn at the mere mention of his name! That miserable wretch who gave you a ring! Oh how I despise him! And you! You're looking positively ill! Does keeping company with a Changy disturb you so? Am I so repulsive to you? What must I do? I love you Christine! I love you! Does that mean _anything_ to you? Say you don't love me! Say you don't love me and I will leave Paris this very evening and will never look back! Say you love me, say you hate me… Say anything! But do not keep your unbearable silence! I cannot abide it a moment longer!"

He was so close to her. His face was a mere inch from hers.

What would she say?

Her lips parted.

But instead of hearing the outpour of loving assurance that our precious Vicomte so desperately craved, Raoul was met with a steady stream of slippery, sucking, rubbery squidlings. Out! Out, damned squids! They spilled from her beautiful, silken throat, a moist, rushing jet of slime that covered him in a pile of pulsing, squirming squid babies.

And then the screaming began.

"Sweet merciful Mother in Heaven! She's got the pox!"

"They're alive! They're eating the Vicomte! Run! Run!"

"Get back! GET BACK, damn you! The opera wench is possessed!"

"Edmund! Edmund! Oh horror! What did she eat? WHAT DID SHE EAT!"

Pandemonium, it seemed, had erupted as violently as Christine had.

Oozing off of Raoul's body, the squids began pouring out into the room, slurping their way into the dining area where the rich and naughty high types of Paris were choking on their fashionable expensive cheeses. The squids started bouncing off of the walls and over the ceiling, attacking restaurant patrons at will. Chaos was everywhere as the horrified masses made a mad dash for the nearest exits, kicking and shoving those who were too old or feeble to run fast enough. In a tangled mass of ties and tentacles, the sucking, searching squid beaks latched onto them as if they were tiny guppies.

Those who managed to escape left a trail of squeaking squidlings behind them. The rest, who were not quite as fortunate, were slowly and noisily devoured by a large, grey mass of throbbing sea creatures. Hmmm. _La Prostituée De Luxe _DOES promise variety, doesn't it?

Raoul (or what was left of Raoul) remained motionless on the floor.

Christine (who by now had stopped her heaving) took in the spectacle with all of the fascination and horror that makes her so damn loveable.

"Raoul?"

He didn't respond.

And in the din of screams and sucking squids, someone laughed at him.


End file.
